A/N: Thank you for that suggestion, shell less snail! I hadn't really entertained that idea, though I did at one point have an image of Watson and a kitten the other day drift through my head. lol You probably don't want to know.
And, to be perfectly honest, I'm writing this entire story on the fly. I have no real outline, no general idea where it's going to go, or where the characters are taking me. I'm learning what this story is about as I go along. The only real difference, is that I get to learn while I'm writing while all of you get to learn a few hours after me when you read it. Hopefully I don't run into any continuity issues. But, if I do, please feel free to let me know!
Chapter Seven
Watson did not sleep long. Though he had no idea what time it was, the level of discomfort he was in quickly alerted him to both his surroundings and the fact that he hadn't slept long enough to feel the indentations of his chair. However, the soft snoring from the chair across from him let him know that Holmes was finally sleeping. Quietly as he could manage, he rose from his chair and crept forward with the blanket to drape it over Holmes, never doubting the man had not bothered to do so for himself. Though Holmes shifted somewhat restlessly, he did not wake.
Happy to be alone with his thoughts for a while, he turned his steps toward the sitting room door and to his bedroom. He could hear Mrs. Hudson moving around below so he could guess that the sun was up at least. Letting his thoughts drift back to the events of yesterday, he was surprised to realize he was more irritated with his own weakness than any real concern for the possibility of a reoccurrence. Wondering if this was just some form of denial or another effect of his head wound, he brushed off his growing depression. He freshened himself up as much as he could on his own and sat for a moment in the chair at his little writing desk wondering what to do next.
For a few moments, he just let the world around him drift away. He let his mind wonder where it willed. This was something he really had not allowed himself since his return from the hospital. The encroaching panic and fear had been deterrent enough. He knew the depression creeping around the edges of his consciousness was soon to follow. Sooner or later, he would have to face the emotional aspects of his loss. Focusing on the physical had kept him busy until now. But it would not take long for Holmes to begin taking cases.
What would he do with himself, then?
Would Holmes start taking clients today?
Would he expect Watson to assist in whatever capacity he could?
Shaking off these questions and their possible answers for when the time came to deal with them directly, he shifted in his chair. Briefly he wondered what to do with himself. He knew Holmes had not been getting much sleep lately, and was needing the rest. Considering his limited options, Watson rose from his chair and headed toward the door.
Oh how he missed his journals now. At least with those he could while away the hours sketching or writing...
Watson's hand froze on the doorknob as an idea struck him. Two voices began clamoring for attention in his head. One was quite obviously his own. The other sounded suspiciously like Holmes.
It's possible, but would take patience and practice.
Absolutely not. Blind people can't use something as simple as pen and paper. There are typewriters for that!
But I do not have the money for one. And I would still need to learn Braille to use it.
So, have Holmes get you started, since he seems so very willing.
But what is wrong with simply trying?
Because it will not work. You cannot see what you are writing and—
Watson silenced these voices. Blessing the privacy of this little room and the fact that he'd thought to have a desk put in, he turned back toward the row of little journals. What else did he really have to do with his morning? The worst that was likely to happen is a mess of unreadable pages and some ink splotches. At the very least, it would probably provide Holmes with some entertainment when he discovered Watson's recent activities.
Then again, he really didn't want Holmes perusing his personal thoughts even so much as to verify if the idea was working at all. Rolling up his sleeves, Watson pulled out a fresh journal. Setting his pen and ink in exact locations he practiced. Holding the open journal with one hand and his pen in the other, he began a series of repetitive motions mimicking the move from ink bottle to page and back again. He kept this up until he was certain he could do this without thinking, as he had always done.
Now oriented, he opened the ink bottle. For several minutes he stared down at the blank pages as if he could will himself to see. But he still had not answered the question of what to write. He'd lost count of how many times he found himself wishing to write down his thoughts, his feelings, his experiences in the last several days. And again his mind recoiled at the idea of having Holmes read even a single line of his personal journals just to verify that he was writing legibly.
Then another idea came to mind.
Watson very nearly dropped his pen. It was impossible. There was no possible way the solution to so many problems could be that simple. Watson felt his hand trembling with excitement at the possibilities. Very deliberately, he set down the pen, closed the journal, and sat back in his chair. Turning his thoughts over in his head, he let the voices he'd heard earlier battle it out. After listening to all sides of the argument and considering all of the possible outcomes, he decided he really had nothing to lose but some respect and an already suffering pride.
Finally, nearly two hours after sitting at his desk, he began.
First he scribbled what he thought to be a decent title.
What next?
He nearly froze, almost ready to turn away from the idea. Battling his own hesitation, he once again forced his mind to order. By this point, he'd already lost his place. He couldn't remember the exact location of that title or what size. Frustrated, he ripped out the page. Dipping his pen, he started again. The title he placed at the top of the page, his finger from his other hand marking his spot. Using this as a reference point and gauging the size of his script, he wrote a line. He dipped his pen in the inkpot.
Realizing he'd forgotten to use his other finger to mark his spot and he was lost again, he ripped out another page. Tamping down his rising frustration, he started again. This process continued to repeat itself as he either found he didn't like what he had written or had lost his spot. He had begun to think he was needing to go back to something simpler like simply writing his name over and over again until he could remember to keep track of his place.
Some indeterminate amount of time later, his latest effort—some four pages long, at this point—was interrupted by a knock on his bedroom door. Knowing if he didn't answer, Holmes was likely to let himself in, Watson found himself scrambling to cover his recent attempts at something blind people weren't supposed to be doing without—
"Watson?"
Too late, Watson cursed himself. In the light of day, there was no way Holmes missed the fact that he was sitting at his desk surrounded by what was likely an unholy mess of ink blotched and stained wadded papers. Slumping his shoulders for a moment trying to come to terms with the inevitable humiliation to follow, Watson set aside his pen.
"Yes, Holmes?" he asked gruffly, not turning around.
"I'm sorry, dear fellow," Holmes started hesitantly, certain by his friend's demeanor he had just interrupted at a very inconvenient time.
Watson heaved a sigh and squared his shoulders. Turning to face Holmes, he stifled his rising emotional tide and prayed his face wasn't as flaming red as it now felt. "Is there something you need?"
"Mrs. Hudson said she would have lunch ready soon and I—I was wondering if you would care to join me. I have some things I would like to discuss."
By this point Watson was certain Holmes had taken in every detail of the room and what he had been attempting. Biting back some rather ungentlemanly comments that were entirely unwarranted at this point, as Holmes had very deliberately not asked, he rose from his desk.
"Of course," he said, gathering his remaining dignity for the inevitable. "I've been...experimenting. Have I made as much of a mess as I suspect?"
Apparently Holmes was not sure how to react. He could tell for himself what Watson was up to, but not why. Seeing the rather extreme amount of discomfort had him more than a little curious. He was having to throttle his curiosity as he knew that something as simple as attempting to write in one of his journals would never have left him so discomfited.
"There is a certain amount of ink on your hands, but not too terribly much. However, there is a considerable sum of paper about your floor. Have you taken to experimenting with my own filing system today, Watson?"
This display of humor he had hoped would ease some of the doctor's discomfort. But, he could not help the question that slipped in there that he hoped would produce something of an answer to satisfy his curiosity. Instead, Watson cleared his throat uncomfortably, still rigid in his posture. Then he suddenly deflated. With a nervous chuckle, he flopped back down into his chair.
"Considering your filing system appears one created by a blind man, I suppose that answer would suffice," he finally shot back.
Relaxing somewhat himself, Holmes leaned on the door frame. "You do, of course, understand that we agreed to resume normal activities? I'm having some difficulties understanding why this makes you so uncomfortable at the moment. Is there something I can do to help? I have begun to look into typewriters for the blind. I could see about acquiring one if that would be easier for you."
This rather lengthy, though hesitant speech from his friend did nothing to dispel his mounting fear. Certain he was about to humiliate himself utterly, Watson decided to get this part out of the way before Holmes did something so completely, selflessly helpful. Reaching around delicately behind himself, Watson pulled out the journal and handed it to Holmes.
"It's not my journal. At least, not the content. It was...an idea, I suppose. A rather foolishly simplistic idea," Watson found himself babbling, but could not bring himself to stop. "I had thought maybe I could find a new profession, or something to do with my time. I just—I mean—"
"A Study in Scarlet?" Holmes read the title curiously.
Watson propped his elbows on his knees and planted his face in his hands.
"'It has been my greatest privilege and honor to come to know a singular man by the name of Sherlock Holmes. Through the merest happenstance—'"
"Enough," Watson mumbled from around his fingers. "It was a foolish idea. Is it at least legible?"
"Just a moment." Holmes said distractedly as he continued to read silently.
"Holmes, please. You really don't need to do this," Watson pleaded, feeling truly wretched.
Having scanned the relatively short amount of material, Holmes closed the little journal. "Would you care to explain this idea? And, to answer your question, it is remarkably legible. Quite up to your previous standards, actually."
Watson heaved a sigh. Still not able to turn to face the man he had, only moments before been writing about, he turned back toward his desk. "I thought that perhaps I could take up writing, even if only in this simplistic form for the time being. It...was a way to fill the time. I thought, perhaps, I could take up chronicling your investigations as more than just notes."
"As a biographer?"
Watson could only nod miserably, now fully seeing for the first time just how ridiculous this notion truly was.
Holmes could not bring himself to crush the man's ambitions so thoroughly. The idea of his name being splattered all over the papers or magazines. And, based on what little he had read...he shuddered silently, quickly putting away the thought. It was just too horrible to comprehend. But it had appeared to make Watson happy, if only for a few hours. It had turned his mind back to something other than his own deficiencies and limitations. He had—in Holmes' opinion—faced each challenge with remarkable results. How much of that was stubbornness and how much of it was desperation to avoid the depression Holmes was certain he had been staving off was another question altogether. But, the possibilities for this being used as both a learning experience and a diversion might just prove beneficial. Maybe, with time, he could convince his friend to turn that energy toward his own journals and their case notes and away from this abhorrent idea.
"Then your timing could not be more perfect, Watson," Holmes assured him happily.
Seeing how Watson sat up straighter, absolute shock painting his face, Holmes knew he'd made the right decision.
"I have a client coming to visit later this afternoon. I was hoping you would be up to joining us."
Watson seemed to hesitate.
"Of course, it will likely be a very simple case and one resolved quite easily. You will probably not have need of your newly developed writing skills just yet. But I would welcome your company."
The hesitance gave way to something akin to hope as those unfocused green eyes roamed around the room. "If you are certain?"
"Of course, dear chap. But first, I believe we could both use some of Mrs. Hudson's finest cooking."
Now that the fear that had temporarily taken up residence in the pit of his stomach had been removed, Watson found himself reminded quite audibly that it had been nearly two days since he'd last eaten. Sensing Holmes' brief grin at the confirmation of his suspicions, he stood to join his friend in the sitting room.
"Honestly, Holmes, how terrible was it?" Watson could not help asking, for some reason no longer fearing the answer.
"Well, it will definitely take some work," Holmes found himself answering, putting aside his personal feelings. "Quite legible, really. But does it really have to be so...romanticized?"
Watson chuckled somewhat nervously. "It's my first attempt, Holmes. I didn't expect it to be perfect."
"Neither should I, of course. Yet, I beg the question, biographer or chronicler?"
"I suppose there is a difference. I think I prefer biographer," Watson suggested, hoping Holmes would catch on.
"My very own Boswell?" Holmes mused almost teasingly. "I recall you mentioning my arrogance more than once in our time together, dear chap. Do you really think that is wise?"
Watson laughed heartily as they entered the sitting room. "I suspect not, but 'chronicler' has an even more romanticized impression about it, in my mind. And adds something of a sense of unwillingness on your part, as you are still alive to approve or disapprove."
Ah, so that is what he's seeking! Holmes thought to himself.
Huffing for a moment as if on the verge of disapproval, Holmes seated himself across from Watson at the table. For a moment he held the journal before tossing it onto the table within easy reach of his friend. Seeing the discomfort once more in Watson's features, he found he could not deny his friend this; no matter how much the idea horrified him.
"Very well, then," he snapped out, trying to put as much enthusiasm as he could into his words. "If you truly believe there is something there worth writing about, then I approve."
The afternoon sunlight could not compare to the smile that lit Watson's features.
A/N 2: Okay...So I guess this is their way of explaining why Holmes would allow Watson to become his Boswell when he so very much disliked the romanticized portrayals of their adventures. Does it work?
